Guess what I saw?

This week...

*I got lice for the third time (did I actually think I could live in a home for impoverished children in southern India for a year without this?)

*two siblings left to say goodbye to their father before his execution later this week (I heartily disapprove of having a kindergartner and a second grader be a part of this)

one of these siblings
 

*Basha and Mariambe's mother showed up (again) to withdraw the children from school, likely so she can take them out begging (we finally persuaded her (again) to leave them here); Basha cried for two hours after she left (he had told all the other children and teachers that he was sorry, but that he was going home and was done with school forever) 

Basha and Mariambe
 

*I learned that our newly hired Tamil (local language) teacher doesn't know how to spell

*our new housemother's alcoholic husband (whom she left to move here) learned of her whereabouts and came to demand her return (since there's no food in the house) and threatened to take the two children, who've been enrolled at Rising Star

*an enormous lizard (a foot long) made an appearance in the library during second grade reading period, causing quite a hullabaloo

*Ramya broke her arm

*Anjali (whose baby died) switched jobs and is now my assistant in the library, for which I am very grateful

*a first grader was suspected of having leprosy (test results are pending)  

child in question with her brother

*the temperature dropped to 80 and I was almost cold

*I was reminded at every turn how much I'd grown to love the children and how hard it will be to leave  

The sweet smell of success

When I was in first grade, my beloved teacher would hand out stickers to students who had done well on their worksheets. I was delighted with them because they emitted a fruity smell when scratched. And across the bottom of the stickers were invariably the words, "The sweet smell of success."

These pictures are from the last day before fall break. By that point, I was in desperate need of respite to prevent my own "fall and break" of nerves! But I was enormously charmed by this scene, from first and second graders in our end-of-the-day English tutoring class. One volunteer's mother had sent along BOB books, which I photocopied a zillion times, and with which the kids made booklets. Take nothing for granted here! The scissors and crayons they used are only very recent additions to our school.

Below is my sweet and zany miracle child, Kanmani Devan (all his first name; I don't think anyone here bears a last name, although this is very confusing). His kleptomaniac skills are enough to put the Pink Panther to shame. He's able to take candy/pencil/gum from the tutor's bag while being tutored, and without the tutor even noticing. I can attest to this! Yet my favorite scenario was when his disgusted teacher called me into the classroom and told me to "look at Kanmani!" He was sitting at his desk with a dead fish in his hand. (??)

For that matter, I'm just wondering how the Tamil workbook I carefully tracked down in Chennai ended up on his desk (see the picture!).

Kanmani has dealt with many challenges, not least of which was his father's suicide. But it's been beautiful to witness a transformation in him over just the last few months. His antics are now more amusing than alarming. Whenever possible, I pull him out of class for out least an hour per day for individual tutoring. Very few kids get this now that the summer sessions are over. But this sort of personal attention was just what the doctor ordered.

I cried when Maimonisha read her booklet to me at lightning speed. She couldn't read a single letter when I met her in June. And then I agonized and worried endlessly about whether having her repeat first grade was the right choice. It was!

The picture of grief

Today we all experienced tragedy at Rising Star. One-year-old little Saranya slipped from this life. She left her mother, Anjali, inconsolable. I wish that grief were divisible, that it weren't a bottomless pit of despair. I wish that I and each community member could have each shouldered one share.

I hate how long grief takes to go away, and that it never really does, completely. I hate how you can't go around it, but only through it. And I especially hate how grief has to be commensurate, as high and as wide, with whatever joy it's replacing.


Anjali is an assistant cook in our kitchen, and she walks in to work every day from the village. She always brought along her two daughters. Archana (below) is in first grade; the baby had Down syndrome with a sweet and loving disposition.

Life here is raw and unfiltered. Every aspect of it is on daily display in the streets: when you feel the urge, you just go; when you have trash, you toss it somewhere (no trash collection-later I will post pictures of the enormous piles on every corner); when you are happy, you shout for joy; when you grieve, you wail. Nothing is hidden.

Sharing the sadness, communal ritual, is an important part of this attitude. Neighbors, especially women, sat with Anjali and the baby for several hours. Finally, it was time for the burial (I expected a cremation, but that is only for older children). The duties are gender specific: women sit and mourn; men carry the body away to burial.

The most heart-wrenching scene was the mother not allowing them to take away her baby. She had to be held down.

I've had some qualms about photographing these emotionally laden scenes, and even more about posting them on a blog. I certainly don't want to come across as exploiting a tragedy. In the end, I decided to share this story, in all respect, reverence, and empathy.

"A stint in India will beat the restlessness out of any living creature" (Life of Pi), or Meeting the Neighbors

It's hard to believe that I've been at Rising Star for over three months. In such an isolated environment, time simultaneously stands still and races forwards. It's also hard to believe that yesterday was the first time I sauntered beyond the walls of our campus and into Thottanaval Village.

That's partly due to the fact that we're not supposed to leave the school alone. And when I have left on morning runs (with other volunteers during the summer sessions), we always steered into the opposite direction to avoid inflicting culture shock as far as possible. As I know well from excursions in the Middle East, women (especially) simply do not run around for exercise.

Devaraj, bicycle pilot, lives in the village but attends Rising Star.

Cameron, one of our two current volunteers. He'll be here until the end of the year, and then starts college in January. Moving directly from high school to university just seemed a bit too mundane.

 

These women had just stepped off the bus and were returning to the village. They insisted on posing for several photos.

 A few asked for a solo shot.

Cameron making all the babies laugh...

A baby's first birthday appears to be a big rite of passage around here. We happened on a fete in preparation for that evening.

They hospitably held out a cup with water and lemon, which I unfortunately and ungraciously had to turn down. This has happened several times and always makes me feel awkward. But I have a very strict rule about only drinking bottled water.

The grocer, who sells limes, candy, and toothbrushes. I wonder what Voltaire would have to say about the cause and effect of these items. I'm remembering how "the legs are visibly designed for stockings; accordingly we wear stockings."

Owning a car is rare in the country, so they make do by strapping twenty plastic chairs/one hundred sacks/a dog/a goat/thirty metal water jugs to the rear end of a bike/motorcycle.  

One of the Hindu shrines in the village.

And finally, one of my favorites:

By the way, is anyone noticing the glorious absence of autumn? The absence of the bright colors of decaying leaves or denuded and lifeless trees? Can you guess what it means to me that I haven't had cold feet OR cold hands even once since I arrived?

Photo Session

Parents Day, round two

One of the difficult decisions I've had to make recently was moving kids back to a lower grade level. Two third graders went to first grade (neither could read a word, but now suddenly they're both learning), and two others to second grade. Two second graders are revisiting first grade, and five first graders are back in kindergarten.

I evaluated each case as carefully as I could, and hope to have made the right choices. Even so, I'm concerned that these children are sometimes teased by their peers.

And, much worse, their parents usually do not approve. Many of them have the notion that children should begin school as early as possible, which means the age of five at the latest. Any divergence from this path spells career failure (which entails failure to lift the family from poverty, from the shame of leprosy, from illiteracy, etc.).

Yesterday was parents day and I had to meet with some pretty distressed moms and dads.

This is what I heard:

"You wasted a year of my daughter's life."
(His SIX-year-old daughter, how I don't know, somehow ended up in third grade, where she most definitely did not belong. Now she's in second).

"I told my neighbors in the village that my daughter is in third grade. If they hear that she's in second, they will laugh at me."

"I was angry at my son for having to repeat a year, so I beat him."

"My husband is in the hospital. And now this? How could you do this to me?"

"My husband is a drunkard. I set all my hopes on my son. Now I hear that he's a failure in school."
(He's only six).